Harold dreamed of snow. Not the pristine, white drifts of winter, but a visceral, suffocating brown—a sludge that carried the copper reek of iron and the sickening stench of rotting blood.
In the dream, he was sinking into the wooden floor of the cottage. His hands, searching for purchase, clawed at gnarled, living branches instead of hewn timber. Every time he fought to haul himself upward, Mary's screams drifted further away, and the image of Alison's bloodied face seared into his mind. The crushing weight of the axe in his hand dragged him deeper into the mire; he tried to cast it away, but it remained fused to his palm, an inescapable part of his very marrow.
Harold jolted awake in the darkness. Sweat slicked his skin despite the bone-deep chill that occupied the room.
He sat for a long moment, gasping for air, staring intently at his hands and then at the shadows around him, desperate to confirm that what he had seen was merely a nightmare. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, his joints protesting as he left the room to check on his kin.
He passed Alison's room. She was sleeping peacefully, a sight that coaxed a ghost of a smile to his lips before he continued toward the kitchen.
The embers in the hearth were still glowing, emitting a soft, rhythmic hiss. Mary was there, scrubbing the same plates over and over.
Harold watched her in silence for a few heartbeats before stepping forward to stand beside her. They exchanged glances—smiles so faint they were almost non-existent—and then stared together out of the window into a heavy, suffocating silence.
"Good morning." Alison appeared, rubbing her eyes and walking with unsteady steps.
"Good morning, my little one," Harold and Mary replied, straining to stretch their features into the wide, bright smiles she deserved.
"Wash your face, then come eat," Mary said, gesturing toward the basin.
Alison obeyed, while Harold and Mary remained rooted in place, staring out of the window in a shared, heavy silence. When they finally sat at the table, breakfast was meager: shards of stale, hardened bread and lukewarm water.
"Thank you for the food, Mother," Alison said, picking up a crust. Throughout the meal, she chattered incessantly. "Did you know, Mother, that milkflowers are a sign of spring? They can even grow through the snow."
"Oh, really? And who taught you that?" Mary leaned her cheek on her hand and smiled.
Alison stood up and walked to Harold's side, throwing her arms out wide as if showcasing a priceless masterpiece. "This beautiful person did!"
Harold smiled, though his hand began to tremor as he reached for a piece of bread. Mary let out a loud laugh, and Alison returned to her seat, continuing her cheerful rambling while her parents listened with rapt attention. Despite the biting cold, warmth filled the small cottage.
"Can I come with you to the forest today? Please?" Alison asked with sudden enthusiasm.
Harold stopped chewing. His features froze. He turned slowly to look at her, but for a terrifying second, he didn't see his daughter—he saw a cold, bloody mass of lifeless flesh. He stared at her, his voice cracking mid-sentence as he spat the words out louder than intended: "No. You aren't coming. Don't argue with me."
"I'm sorry," Alison murmured, turning back to her food. The spark in her eyes died instantly, and her smile collapsed into an involuntary pout.
Harold froze, his mouth hanging open, the words he wanted to say trapped in his throat. Hurriedly, he snatched his axe from beside the hearth, shoved his feet into his boots, and bolted. He slammed the door with such force that the impact reverberated through the entire cottage.
Mary stared at the door, a deep scowl etched onto her face, before looking at Alison. Tears were already carving paths down the girl's cheeks.
Outside, Harold stood alone, staring at the axe. It was a grim tool, covered in scratches and the stains of dried blood. He fetched the cart and began to haul it toward the forest path. Villagers called out greetings, but he offered no reply. A quarter of the way there, Harold stopped the cart. He stared at the ground for a long moment, the words "I'm sorry" echoing in his skull like a relentless pulse.
Back in the cottage, Mary knelt and pulled Alison into a tight embrace. "It's alright. He loves you, that's why he shouted," Mary whispered, patting her head before wiping the tears away with her sleeve. "Come, let's finish breakfast."
They sat together and finished the meal, and afterward, Alison helped Mary clear the table. Then, she took out her small hand-carved wooden toys and began to play.
The door creaked open. Harold stepped in, set his axe on the floor, and kicked off his boots. He sat down beside Alison, picked up a wooden horse, and began to play with her. His eyes darted nervously between his axe and the forest visible through the window.
"Please forgive me," he said, his voice low and soft. "I didn't mean to upset you. You can come... just, don't be cross with me."
"Really?"
Harold nodded. "Go on, get your coat and come back. Hurry now." He placed a hand gently on her head.
"Wooooh! I'm going!" Alison leaped up in a burst of excitement.
Mary, who had been dusting, set down her cloth and sat near Harold. She looked at his trembling hand—still clutching the wooden horse—and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"She understands," Mary whispered urgently. "But even if she didn't, you don't need to take her. She'll only hinder you, and you know that better than anyone."
Harold raised a hand, silencing her. "Don't worry. I'll look after us," he replied.
Mary stared at him, opening her mouth to protest again, but Harold met her gaze with iron resolve. "I said don't worry, Mary."
Mary sighed. "Then take care of yourselves. And don't stay long. Please."
Alison returned, struggling with her coat. "I can't get it on!"
Mary rose and helped her, her movements so brisk and forceful that Alison nearly stumbled. Mary gripped the girl's shoulders, steadying her, and looked deep into her eyes as she buttoned the coat. "Take care of yourself... and him," Mary said, gesturing to Harold. Alison nodded vigorously.
They stepped out, Harold placing Alison and his axe into the cart. As they rolled away, Mary stood in the doorway, waving in a heavy, silent farewell until they vanished from sight.
Alison waved to the villagers they passed; they returned her greeting with smiles that lasted no more than five seconds.
As the cart cut through the frozen mud, the wheels emitted a harsh, rhythmic screech that failed to break the dominant silence of the woods. The breath of father and daughter bloomed into white clouds of vapor, and the biting cold turned the tips of their noses a raw, vivid red. Alison rubbed her hands together, blowing on them for warmth, while Harold's eyes scanned left and right, searching for something specific.
They reached a dense thicket of ancient oaks, draped in a thin shroud of snow. Harold selected a suitable tree and brought the cart to a halt. He drew his axe and began to strike the trunk. The blows thundered through the woods, shaking the cart and making Alison jump. His strikes were wild, hitting different points of the bark with desperate energy.
Alison watched him, chattering about random things to fill the air. Suddenly, Harold stopped. He turned to her and leaned down, his breath heavy, his eyes wide and pleading.
"Alison, sweetheart... please. Can you give me some quiet?" he whispered with a heavy breath.
Alison nodded and fell silent. Harold returned to his work. With one final, devastating blow, the giant oak groaned and succumbed to the earth.
"Wooo, it fell!" Alison cheered, her hand covering her mouth to keep her voice low.
Harold exhaled a ragged breath, using the hem of his shirt to wipe the frozen sweat from his brow. Together, they began to clear the tree. Harold used the axe to lop off the heavy limbs, while Alison used a broad hunting knife to trim the slender twigs in silence.
As the shadows began to shift, Harold started sectioning the massive trunk. The rhythm of his axe was steadier now, calmer.
Suddenly, a harsh, scraping sound erupted from between the boles of the trees. Alison spun toward the source; Harold, sensing the danger, tensed for a hunt. Something was dragging itself quickly over the dirt-streaked snow.
Harold turned. The very air he breathed felt as heavy as water.
Grey fur, white teeth glinting in the pale sun—a massive wolf emerged. Its tail hung low between its legs, its eyes darting greedily between man and child. In a heartbeat, it lunged at Alison with a guttural snarl.
Driven by a father's primal instinct, Harold threw himself forward. His boots skidded on the ice as he slammed his body into the wolf, knocking it to the ground. The beast let out a sharp yelp and tried to spring back at Harold. Harold fumbled for his axe, swinging the blunt poll into the wolf's ribs, sending it crashing back down.
Alison watched, her face ghostly pale, her body shaking—not from the cold, but from sheer terror.
Before the wolf could clear its head, Harold stood over it, raising the axe to split its skull. The wolf stared up at the descending steel.
Alison scrambled forward. She slipped in the mud, her face splattering with filth, but she crawled onward until she could seize Harold's leg. She could feel the veins thrumming in his skin.
"Stop," she rasped, her voice barely a whisper, tears flowing freely.
The axe halted, having already bitten a shallow red line into the wolf's head.
"Alison, what are you doing!" Harold grabbed her by the shoulder, hoisting her up to eye level and shaking her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth pulled into a grimace of sorrow.
The wolf struggled to its feet, swaying unsteadily. Blood leaked from its head as it slunk away toward the thickets, growling low, its eyes never leaving the pair. From the undergrowth, three small pups emerged, whimpering and nuzzling their mother as they retreated.
Harold watched them go. He lowered Alison, placing a hand on her head for a fleeting moment, then took her hand to lead her back to the cart.
But before they could take a single step, a sickening rustle and a sharp crack shattered the silence. The wolf began to roar—not a snarl, but a sound of pure agony. Its body went rigid. Harold turned to see a nightmare emerging from the trees.
It was a creature of hairless, leathery skin, coated in a layer of oily filth. It had long, powerful hind legs corded with muscle and short, stunted arms ending in claws as sharp as razors. Its eyes were mere pinpricks in a massive, rounded face. Its nostrils were twin pits leaking slime, and its mouth was crowded with teeth the color of tarnished gold—not metal, but the calcified remains of a thousand victims' blood.
It was the Branch Skipper .
In the blink of an eye, it fell upon the wolf, tearing it into bloody ribbons. Before the pups could even comprehend the horror, the creature swallowed them whole in three sickening gulps.
Harold and Alison were frozen.
As Harold tried to back away, the Branch Skipper pivoted toward them. Harold scooped Alison up and bolted, but he hadn't covered five meters before the monster tackled him, slamming him into the earth. Harold shoved Alison away, trying to roll and reach for his axe, but time had run out.
Alison scrambled up, her eyes nearly bulging from their sockets, her face as white as the snow. The Branch Skipper lunged at Harold again.
Her eyes caught the glint of the hunting knife. She dove for it.
Harold sacrificed his left arm, thrusting it into the beast's maw to protect his throat. He screamed as the teeth sank deep. He fought to wrench his limb free, but the grip was iron.
Alison gripped the knife with shaking hands and charged. As the Branch Skipper was busy mauling her father's arm, she plunged the blade into the creature again and again. Her strikes were frantic, random, but by some miracle, they found both of the creature's tiny eyes.
The monster unleashed a shriek so shrill it threatened to burst their eardrums. Alison didn't stop. She stabbed again and again until the creature finally released Harold's arm.
The Branch Skipper lashed out blindly with its claws. Alison tried to dodge, but the talons raked across her face. She delivered one final, desperate thrust. The creature collapsed, thrashing and bleeding a foul, yellowish ichor that mingled with Harold's crimson blood.
The knife shook in Alison's hand as she stared at the slumped, unconscious form of the beast. She didn't let go of the weapon until Harold's pained moans snapped her back to reality.
She stripped off her coat and used it to wrap Harold's mangled arm, tying it tight with one of her boot laces. Harold's bones were visible through the ruined flesh; a shard of bone even fell into the snow beside her as she tried to piece him back together.
Harold's lips were turning blue, his skin ashen. He leaned on Alison and managed to stand, but after a few staggering paces that left a trail of dark blood, he collapsed. His eyes lost focus, and he began to mutter unintelligible nonsense.
Alison's teeth chattered violently, and her hands were turning the color of bruised blueberries. She knelt, looking at the blood that stained everything around them. She looked at the trees and found a large one with thick, dry bark. With the knife, she began to strike the trunk with precision, carving out a large rectangle.
She pried the slab of bark away in one piece. Taking her remaining boot lace, she threaded it through the bark and dug the makeshift sled deep into the snow. With a strength born of desperation, she hauled Harold's cooling body onto the bark.
She took a deep breath and pulled. The sled didn't move. She pushed instead. This time, it slid across the fresh snow. Alison pushed and pushed. Her other boot slipped off, but she didn't stop, pausing every five minutes only to catch her breath. Wood splinters pierced her fingers, and the rough bark shredded her palms, but she ground her teeth and kept moving.
Finally, Alison reached the outskirts of the village. The first to see her was a man on his roof, clearing snow. He spotted a shadow—a child dragging something, leaving a broad, vivid trail of scarlet behind her.
The man froze, then scrambled down. "There's blood!" he screamed, sprinting toward her.
Other villagers dropped their tools, leaving their work. Alison's teeth were clacking together with rhythmic violence. Her hands were raw, bloody, and torn. Her consciousness was a flickering candle.
As the villagers reached them, Alison collapsed onto the snow.
She watched them gather around Harold, none of them noticing her yet. She watched them check his pulse; her face pulled into a faint, ghost of a smile as the last of her awareness slipped away into the white.